Determined
by Corey5268
Summary: Even before the markings began showing up, many cultures had stories about people being bound by the soul. The red string of fate, bashert, Cupid. It has always been known that people belong in pairs.
1. An Essay

The following essay is an early draft of a paper written (and later rewritten six more times) by John H. Watson during his third year of university. He had a peculiar professor for the mythology class he took that year. The man wasn't much older than his students. John was in a small class of twenty-four people. Rather than either assigning everyone the same topic to write about, or letting the students choose a topic, his professor would assign topics at random. Every time they had to write something, one student at a time would walk up to the sequined top hat and remove a piece of paper. Approaching the hat for the penultimate time, John had selected the following prompt: Choose a phenomenon explained by mythology. Explain its relevance throughout history, and how it affects us today. Discuss your personal experiences with the phenomenon.

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Aristophanes said that everyone had a soulmate. He claimed that humans were originally cylindrical beings: four arms, four legs, and one head with two faces going in opposite directions. There were also three genders of humans: the male, the female, and the "androgynous" (half male and half female). When the gods began to worry about how powerful the humans were, they hit a wall. They considered obliterating the race, but they didn't want to lose their playthings and the sacrifices from the humans. Zeus eventually decided that he would cut the humans in half to cripple them. That's how humans came to be as we are now. The phrase "searching for my other half" is because of this split. We search high and low to find the person that we were taken from. The androgynous were severed into heterosexuals, and homosexuals were cut from the single-gendered humans. When we find our literal other half, we never want to let go.

Even before the markings began showing up, many cultures had stories about people being bound by the soul. The red string of fate, bashert, Cupid. It has always been known that people belong in pairs. The _confirmation_ didn't appear until sometime during the middle ages.

Around the tenth or eleventh century, people began to notice the markings. The strange symbols began appearing on people gradually. It was thought to be random —or witchcraft— until someone who was intelligent enough to figure it out was brought in. This man, a French priest, realized a few key things: first, the symbols were mainly letters (illiteracy rates were astonishingly high in the middle ages); sometimes they were other things, but they were usually letters. Second, the letters, which were sometimes symbols, mainly appeared on new couples within weeks of their meeting. This led to his third conclusion, which was that the letters were initials. Last but not least, the initials were those of the bearer's soulmate (now called their "determined").

Despite the clergyman's leap of faith on part four, he was right. The markings, as they have been called from the beginning, appear upon the first touch of a soulmate. It's a gradual darkening of skin over the course of a few days resulting in a mark that resembles a tattoo. They're nearly always between one and two centimeters big —according to Guinness World Records, the biggest is three and a half centimeters wide— and almost always in a subtle, semi-hidden spot. The location prevents embarrassment, but it's difficult to notice when a marking appears. Not everyone ends up with the initials of their determined. Usually, it's the more creative and unique individuals who get a picture. The picture is entirely symbolic of the relationship.

Though the marks are a useful heads up (and prevent infidelity), there are some drawbacks. They can be a bit embarrassing, especially if you're young. When I was nine years old, a friend of mine tripped and knocked over a girl on the playground. Four days later, the girl's initials appeared on the back of his neck. He was teased mercilessly. After all, girls had cooties. The concept of being forever tied to someone else was foreign at that age.

Society had to place strict rules to ensure safety and order. Your determined can be _anyone_; propriety is irrelevant. All public places have cork boards for notices of accidental markings. In schools and businesses, gloves must be worn at all times. In a corporate meeting, attendees must not sit close enough for accidental contact to occur; papers would be passed by an already-marked third party. Special gloves were created that go all the way to the armpit. Once they're snapped into place, they shrink until they're like a second skin. Many clothing companies have cashed in on the new technology by adjusting the gloves for different demographics. Breathable gloves for the summer, disposable gloves for doctors, and bulletproof gloves for police and soldiers. Even those who are marked wear gloves. This is both to avoid the hype that surrounds announcing a determined, and to prevent one-sided markings.

A one-sided marking binds you to a person for eternity, but not the other way around. They are your determined, but you are not theirs. The cause tends to be a traumatic. Nobody is quite sure _why_ it happens, but the soul reaches out for a few seconds after severe emotional trauma. If two people form an emotional connection during that time, which is rare, the one who was traumatized misdetermines. They connect to the other person (perhaps a savior), and sever the connection to their original determined. _Typically_,the attachment both to and from the misdetermined is cut, and the original determined is none the wiser. Therapy is usually the next step after confirming that the marking is one-sided.

Preconceived notions of sexual orientation are sometimes irrelevant when it comes to marking. Other than one-sided markings, there are no mistakes when it comes to who your determined is. They're always a perfect match, even if it's in a twisted way that you need to squint to see. One would think that the absence of choice in a determined would obliterate homophobia. Rather than removing the issue, the mark polarizes opinions. Some see it as the mark of the devil.

At this point in my life, I have not found my determined.

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John's professor informed him that more self-aware people can sometimes describe their determined before meeting them. The two men made a bet. They would each take a crack at describing John's determined. The professor would make his guess, place it in an envelope, and then John would describe his soulmate to his teacher. John's guess would be placed in the envelope, which was only to be opened upon finding his determined. No matter how far in the future, John would seek out his former professor when the envelope was opened, and the losing man would hand over 100 pounds.

The older man had a strong idea of the type of person that John would be marked by. Just to frighten his student, he wrote on lined paper in large handwriting, skipping multiple lines. His two paragraphs ended up being five pages long.

"John Watson, future doctor. You have a strong, unusual personality. Opposites attract is the only way to go. You have a paternal instinct beyond compare, so they'll probably be naive in many ways, and possibly younger than you. You're more than an adrenaline junkie: you get your kicks through near-death experiences. He'll have a dangerous job to keep you on your toes. He? Yeah, he. You need to be a part of a team. The two of you will exactly compensate for any weakness from the other. A difference in gender would tip the scale; breasts and pregnancy scares would get in the way of danger. Polar opposites means an aloof and abrasive personality. Any shorter than you would ruin the balance. Why do I keep going on about balance? If they're going to be an equally strong but opposite personality, balance will keep the boat from sinking. Since shorter is out, taller than you also points to a man. Especially because an abrasive woman would just confuse you. You'll probably have to apologize for him a lot.

You'll be his heart, so what will he be? Any less intelligent than you would make you overcompensate. Being of a similar intelligence would make you feel like you're putting more into the relationship than you're getting. The only thing left is that he'll be much smarter than you. You'll be the heart to his head (which will be rather far from the ground), and the human to his robot. He'll nearly get you killed more than once, and you'll probably spend your nights stitching him back together. You two will be such opposites that I wouldn't be surprised if he has dark curls, pale skin, and an older brother to match your little sister, tan, and light hair."

The professor chuckled when John gave him his prediction. It would seem that the future army doctor felt that the adrenaline seeking had to be suppressed rather than cultivated. John had given him a near self-portrait in his list of traits...only changed in small ways that made the woman seem like a cat. The prediction was sealed in an envelope with a smirk, and handed to John.

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The two kept in contact after John graduated. Periodic letters and phone calls forged a friendship between the two men. During John's second year in medical school, his former professor got bored with mythology and decided to join him. They kept in touch until the day that John H. Watson, M.D. pulled on his bulletproof gloves and was shipped off to Afghanistan. It would be years before he saw his friend again, but Professor Michael Stamford, Ph.D. could wait.


	2. A Meeting

Fate is a funny thing. Mike Stamford had expected a great deal from that tuesday morning. He wasn't surprised when he woke up to a cursing neighbor (eviction notice). As he made his way outside from his flat, he wasn't shocked that the number of stairs hadn't changed. He had expected the sun to keep shining as he read his paper in the park. He expected the opportunity to throw things at sleeping students during his afternoon class a few hours later. He expected a peaceful morning with nothing extraordinary in the news. He did not expect John Watson to limp past him down the park path. He didn't expect John to have a bullet wound or a cane. Mike hadn't anticipated the new lines on John's face, or the grey in his hair. When he woke up that morning, he would have laughed in your face if you tried to tell him that John was wandering about London looking like a broken man. For Mike, it had become a morning of surprises.

He didn't bother with a glove when he reached to shake John's hand. They shook hands before the bet, just to avoid confusion if either had been marked by the contact. To this day, Mike wonders what they would have done with the money if they were both **_that_** far off. Donated it somewhere, he supposed. Just to honor the irony of the situation.

As the men walked to get coffee, Stamford brought up the bet. John genuinely smiled for the first time that morning, and shook his head. Mike hadn't expected him to find someone in the army. Watson's eyebrows shot up when he saw the initials on Mike's wrist. Mike just laughed and pointedly glanced at his wedding ring. How John had missed it was a mystery to him. They reached the front of the queue just as Mike finished a story about his daughter. John ordered his coffee black with no sugar —Some things never change— and they meandered back to their bench.

John sipped his coffee with a contented sigh. "Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them," Mike quipped with a laugh. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension."

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." One of the things Mike had first noticed about the man was his wanderlust. As a young man in uni, all John wanted to do was to roam. Apparently Afghanistan was far enough.

"I'm not the John Watson you..." He cut off the retort and flexed his fingers. Stamford disagreed. He was still the same man, albeit with a cane and a bit of post traumatic stress.

"Couldn't Harry help?" The younger man scoffed.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen." An idea began to form. Would it be immoral to take advantage of his friend's vulnerable state to win a decade-old bet? Stamford decided that it wasn't. This was a win-win situation. He turned the conversation in the right direction.

"I don't know. Get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on," John flashed a self-deprecating smile. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Stamford laughed. Oh, this was all going very nicely. "What?" John cocked an eyebrow at the giggling man.

"You're the second person to say that to me today." His soon-to-be ex-neighbor had a nearly identical conversation with him in the hall this morning. The brilliant, high-maintenance man could work quite nicely.

"Who was the first?" His friend looked intrigued.

"Believe me, John," Mike took the final sip of his coffee. "It's best to let him introduce himself."

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John took a glance around the lab as he walked through the door.

"Bit different from my day." He mused, choosing to ignore the man at the microscope for the moment. The technology had shrunk greatly since medical school.

"You've no idea." Mike knew that the man wouldn't be ignored for very long. Just as he opened his mouth to get his attention, the man chimed in.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text." Mike rolled his eyes, and braced himself for the coming theatrics.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Ah, here," John reached into his pocket. "Use mine." Stamford put on his best poker face to watch the meeting unfold.

"Oh. Thank you." _That_ was new. Mike had known the beanpole since his final year teaching mythology, and he's heard him say thank you less than twenty times. So_ he was_ trying to make a good first impression.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." The man in the suit sauntered forwards to collect John's phone. Mike held his breath as their uncovered hands reached out.

Nope. No contact. Ninguno.

Without looking up from the phone, one former student made an inquiry. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Mike tried, unsuccessfully, not to smirk. _He_ was used to the information seemingly coming out of thin air, but _John_ would be woefully unprepared.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry. How did you know?" John eyed the phone suspiciously. At that moment, the door squeaked open, and a young woman walked in with a mug.

"Ah, Molly...coffee, thank you." The phone was returned to John's hand. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." She smiled.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," He mused, taking the cup. "Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay." The girl squeaked. John pitied the girl.

The strange man spoke again as Molly left. "How do you feel about the violin?" Mike glanced up from the test tube he was examining. He couldn't resist another smirk. His neighbor was already infatuated. That envelope would finally have its seal broken after all these years.

"Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." John shot a glare over at his former teacher.

"You told him about me?"

Mike feigned surprise. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did! Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for," He shrugged on a coat. "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." A blue scarf was knotted around his long neck.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" The man ignored him.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," He walked towards the veteran. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven 'o clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." The enigma walked to the door.

"Is that it?" John turned towards the retreating figure.

"Is that what?" He walked a few steps back into the room. Mike smiled. He, once again, was going for the dramatic exit. Stamford should have known that he couldn't leave without showing off.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?" John glanced at Mike and smiled.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." The click of gears in the tall man's head was almost audible to Mike. The man locked his silvery eyes on John.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic— quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He swept towards the door. John looked over at Stamford expectantly.

"Just wait!" He mouthed, gesturing towards the door. The man was stopped with one hand on the door handle.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street." He winked and ducked out of the door. "Afternoon!"

Mike waved with a barely hidden smile. As caustic and eccentric as Sherlock is, Mike is rather fond of him. John gave him a bewildered look.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

John looked back and forth between Mike and the door in confusion. As he did so, the professor was left with the disturbing feeling that he had just witnessed Sherlock Holmes flirting.


	3. A Fourth?

**A/N:** Thank you **Rairakku1234** for pointing out that this chapter was a bit choppy, and pointing out that John's reaction in the first section should be fleshed out. I redid it, and so here's the newly-revised chapter three. Now including a fleshy first section! The POV still shifts, but it's less difficult to follow. There's another one of these at the bottom, by the way. I'm in a wordy mood.

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That night, as John was updating his blog, he received a text. Apparently Sherlock Holmes had added himself to John's phone when he sent the text about the ladder. Change of plans. They were to meet at 3:30 the next day, if that was alright with John. It was. He had nothing better to do anyway. John sent his confirmation, and typed the man's name into Google.

Under Google's proud statement about how fast it came up with search results was a series of links. Spam, spam, spam, a poorly disguised porn website (It did _not_ contain Sherlock Holmes), spam, and finally a seemingly promising website. The Science of Deduction. The doctor clicked on it. Up popped a black and electric blue version of London's skyline. John scrolled down the page. Sherlock had apparently written a brief, and somewhat rude, introduction. A simple paragraph and list served as a description of his career:

This is what I do:

1. I observe everything.

2. From what I observe, I deduce everything.

When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth.

If you need assistance, contact me and we'll discuss its potential.

John blinked at the screen. Well, that _did_ sound exactly like the man he met in the lab. After all, how many Sherlock Holmes' could there be? The soldier forged onwards through the website, cocking an eyebrow with disbelief at every strange case. He'd have to inquire more tomorrow night. For now, sleep was his main priority.

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The madman was exiting a cab while John approached 221b Baker Street.

"Hello."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes" Holmes extended an arm.

"Sherlock, please." John noted his gloves as they shook hands. Expensive, but well worn. He supposed that the other man would be able to get a life story and view of society out of them. The gloves met behind Sherlock's back as he took in their surroundings.

"This is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"So you stopped her husband being executed?" The question was greeted with a smug, nearly-amused smile.

"Oh no, I ensured it." Before John could even raise an eyebrow at that, an older woman opened the door. John didn't really worry that she wasn't wearing gloves herself. Determinations rarely happen over such a wide age gap. If, by some slim chance, the woman _was_ his determined then he knew where to find her.

"Sherlock!" She gave the man a bear hug. John wouldn't have pegged Sherlock as the hugging type.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson."

"Hello. Come in!" For the first time out of a million, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes climbed the stairs of 221b Baker Street.

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Up in the flat, Sherlock apologized for his boxes of stuff, and stuck a letter to the mantle of the fireplace with a knife. The stabbed letter didn't look out of place next to the display of beetles and—

"That's a skull." John gestured to the bones on the fireplace with his cane. Sherlock's belief that the limp was psychosomatic was cemented. He'd really have to do something about that.

"Friend of mine. Well, I say friend..." Again, Mrs. Hudson chimed in before John could raise a question.

"What do you think then, Dr. Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms." He redirected a quizzical look to her. Sherlock smirked at the woman's assumption. It was logical, but completely incorrect.

"Of course we'll be needing two." Thus began John's quest to assert his heterosexuality.

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones." Mrs. Hudson winked and walked into the kitchen, leaving John speechless. Sherlock whirled around the music stand in the corner, pretending to ignore the woman's comments. He didn't care that she thought they were determined. It was all the same to him.

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From the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson watched the boys interact.

"I looked you up on the Internet last night." _That_ immediately caused Sherlock to spin around and look at John.

"Anything interesting?" Mrs. Hudson caught the slight rush of his words, and smiled. When Sherlock was a little boy, she worked as a housekeeper for the Holmes family. He was always an energetic little thing, so full of life. Sherlock forever had leaves in his hair and scrapes on his knees from his adventures and exploration. After the death of his father, Sherlock had grieved. He had hidden away the little boy who cared for his brother and wanted nothing more than to please his parents. At school, he would lash out at anyone who tried to get close to him. Rather than understanding, or even asking what was wrong, the other kids made fun of him. They made fun of him behind his back. He would burn people with his words, and they would beat him up. Sherlock stopped letting anyone in after that.

After he came back from university, Mrs. Hudson was no longer cleaning Sherlock's cuts and icing his bruises as his mother held him. She was the one calling an ambulance as Mrs. Holmes cried over her nearly-dead son. She was the one who let Mycroft know that his little brother was in the hospital from an overdose with a slim chance of full recovery. Mrs. Hudson found his cocaine stash, and handed it over to the police personally. She left for Florida after Sherlock left for rehab. Years later, she sent Sherlock a letter about her husband. He was on the next flight to the United States.

From the ages of fourteen to twenty-nine, Sherlock was a shell of his former self. It wasn't until she saw him on the trail of her now-late husband that she caught a glimpse of the boy she loved like a son. For a few weeks, he was excited again. Not in the same kind of way —he was almost manic in his enthusiasm— but at least he wasn't an empty vessel. It was only while he was on the case that she was allowed to see Sherlock Everett Byron Holmes, future pirate, again. She was surprised —and delighted— that he sounded so eager, so excited, for Doctor Watson's opinion. Whether he was aware of it or not, John was one of the few people Sherlock let in since the death of his father.

"Found your website, the Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" John looked skeptical.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes. And I could read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits on your mobile phone."

"How?" Sherlock turned back to the window, breaking eye contact at the last possible second. Before John could draw the man's attention away from his laptop, Mrs. Hudson cut him off for the third time. Sherlock _did_ love to show off and be mysterious. She decided to help him out for a little longer. Picking up the newspaper she was reading earlier, she left the kitchen.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." Holmes' attention was caught by something on the other side of the window. "Three exactly the same."

"Four." He looked at the street below through the glass. Lights from a police car, judging by the strobing glow off of Sherlock's face. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" As Mrs. Hudson spoke, a man came running up the stairs. A silver-haired man (who, in Mrs. Hudson's opinion, was quite hunky) with a coat nearly the length of Sherlock's, though not nearly as dramatic, came bounding through the door.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"It's Anderson." Sherlock looked like he took a sip of sour milk. John, amused, continued watching the exchange. So Sherlock didn't like this Anderson?

"Anderson won't work with me." It would seem that Anderson disliked him in return.

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant."

"Will you come?" The officer repeated.

"Not in the police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." It sounded like a sigh of relief.

As Lestrade walked away, the careful expression molded on Sherlock's face melted away like Icarus' wings. His smile grew luminous as he jumped up in a sort of victory dance.

"Brilliant!" He shouted. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Sherlock pulled on his coat and grabbed his gloves from besides an Erlenmeyer flask on the kitchen table.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Old habits die hard, she supposed.

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up."

"Look at him dashing about. My husband was just the same," She was almost positive that Sherlock hadn't yet told him how her husband had gotten sentenced to death. That would be a story to impress Doctor Watson with another night. "But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"DAMN MY LEG! Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." He apologized profusely. She got it completely. He didn't like being reminded that he was a cripple.

"I understand, dear. I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you." John unfolded the newspaper.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper." Elizabeth Hudson had retired many years ago. She'd rather not be treated like she still worked for Sherlock's family. She loved the family, and didn't mind the work, but it was tiring.

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got'em." She sighed. Two peas in a pod, those boys were.

"Not your housekeeper!"

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John turned his attention to the paper in his hand. Next to a picture of the latest suicide, was a picture of the man who had just come asking for Sherlock's help. DI Lestrade. Before Watson could get much further in the article, Sherlock's voice resonated from behind him.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

"Yes." John cleared his throat as he stood up. Sherlock put on his right glove before looking back at the man with the cane.

"Any good?" Sherlock had his deductions made, and a fair idea of what the answer would be. In the ten minutes he'd been around John Watson, he'd learned what others would in weeks.

"Very good." For example, the doctor was modest, but not a liar. Or one to brag. If he said he was very good, he was probably excellent.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?" Sherlock pulled on his left glove as he took a few steps towards John. When they were a foot apart, John replied.

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much." Something in Sherlock's eyes flickered and lit up.

"Want to see some more?" The soldier in Watson did a jig. Trouble was what John "Three Continents" Watson lived for in the Army.

"Oh God, yes." The two men descended the stairs of 221b Baker Street even faster than they had climbed them.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John called. "I'll skip the tea. Off out."

"_Both_ of you?"

"Impossible suicides, for of them. There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock pulled the elderly woman in and planted a loud kiss on her cheek. In return, she rolled her eyes.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." With a pat on the shoulder as a blessing, Sherlock turned away.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

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**A/N**: I have a few things I want to say. First of all, thank you so much if you've read, reviewed, favorited, or alerted this story. It means the world to me that people are reading this. The fact that some people like it is blowing my mind. Second, I'm sorry this took a while. I'm in the middle of finals week (which has been split so there's a weekend in the middle). I have a really hectic summer, and I'm going to be gone for three weeks (starting the 30th) before getting teeth pulled and going on vacation with my family soon after. Updates will be sporadic, and not happen at all between June 30 and July 21. Third, I promise you guys, I will get to my plot soon. The next chapter, and one way off in the distance which I've already written will be some of the last few that rely heavily on the dialogue from the show. I'm just using it as a springboard to get my story and the interaction between John and Sherlock on the road.


	4. A Body from Cardiff

It was well known to everyone that Greg Lestrade's team was full of the Yard's most abrasive officers. Sally Donovan was no exception. From what the Detective Inspector knew, life hadn't been easy on Sergeant Donovan. He also knew that when life had swallowed her proverbial tough cookie, she had crawled back up its throat and broke its teeth to get out.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in." That particular nickname had been earned about four years previous when Sherlock had rather spectacularly rejected Sally's advances. Lestrade walked towards the door of the building to wait for Sherlock. God knows what he'd get up to if he entered the building unescorted. The good DI rolled his eyes as he saw his forensics officer walking into the path of the consulting detective.

"Ah Anderson, here we are again." Sherlock's grin was visible from the doorway. He enjoyed abusing the man. Nobody could exactly _blame _him though. Marvin Anderson was a bit of an arse.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Anderson sneered. He had adopted Sally's nickname two summers ago, when Sherlock _may _have implied that Anderson has a fascination with dinosaurs that went beyond a childish obsession. It might not have been a big deal if Sherlock hadn't screamed it at a crime scene during a fight over apparently-missing fingernail clippings.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men. I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sergeant Donovan. Ooh, I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" Life really hadn't been easy on Donovan. Anderson, unfortunately for her, was her determined. Completely one-sided. He didn't know how it happened, but Anderson must have been the wrong person at the right time at some point. The man tended to exploit her emotional connection to him as a means to cheat on his wife. Mrs. Lestrade wasn't the most faithful of women, and it was bloody awful feeling. He couldn't even imagine what it would be like if she were _actually_ his determined.

"Now, look, whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying _anything_. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat and just _happened_ to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Suppressing a chuckle, Lestrade made his way to the bottom of the staircase. The foldable table held special gloves and plastic...they kind of looked like footie-pajamas, actually.

"You should wear one of these." Lestrade instructed the detective and the man who walked in with him. "Who's this?"

"He's with me." Despite what Sherlock seemed to think, he was not an unobservant buffoon. The fact that they came out of the same cab was enough indication that they were there together.

"But who _is_ he?" Sherlock all but growled in reply.

"I _said_ he's with me." _He_, whoever _He_ was, chose then to speak to Sherlock.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" Lestrade snorted quietly. Obviously the man hadn't been around for very long. The suit would interfere with one of Sherlock's main rules: the more theatrical, the better. He couldn't bloody well twirl that ridiculous coat of his while observing proper crime scene procedure, could he? Sherlock gave the man a look and turned back to Lestrade.

"So where are we?"

"Upstairs. I can give you two minutes." The consulting detective and his...colleague, he supposed, followed him up the winding staircase. The floorboards creaked with every step.

"May need longer." He had never seen Sherlock _need _longer than two minutes on a crime scene, and didn't expect it to start happening now.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson, according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

00000

In the room at the very top of the stairs, Jennifer Wilson lay on her stomach dead and clad in pink. To her left, 'Rache' was carved into the floor. Sherlock, being very much in character, yelled at Lestrade for thinking too loudly before Anderson came in and interrupted his deductions.

"She's German. Rache. German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something." Sherlock, being very much in character, thanked him for his input and, without looking up from his phone, promptly slammed the door in his face. Sherlock then denied the woman's German citizenship. She was from Cardiff, apparently, and only intending on staying in London for the night.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock addressed the man with the cane.

"Of the message?"

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

"You know, we do have a team outside." Greg reminded the men.

"Doctor Watson!" Sherlock called his attention to the body. The doctor turned to the DI with an apologetic look. With a long-suffering sigh, Lestrade gave the doctor his blessing.

"Oh, do as he says, help yourself. Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes!" The Detective Inspector left, but continued listening in on their conversation.

"What am I doing here?"

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Well, this is more fun." Lestrade snorted quietly. Crimes and cocaine may not be a typical person's idea of a good time, but Sherlock wasn't really typical by most definitions of the word. A puzzled look spread across his face. If _this _was what Sherlock considered fun, what does he do on dates? The idea was immediately dismissed because it creeped Lestrade out too much to ponder. Besides, the man would never do something as human as dating. His libido (which, due to some poor timing, Lestrade knew existed) was probably kept under control with the help of some mythical being, like the Leprechaun of Sexual Satisfaction, or the Tooth Fairy.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper." The DI heard a quiet sigh that wasn't Sherlock's, and a shuffling of plastic against dirt and wooden floors. Now seemed as good of a time as any to reenter the room. As he did, he heard a soft inhale, and the other man gave Sherlock an answer.

"Yeah. Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure, possibly drugs."

"You know what it was, you've read the papers."

"Well, she's one of the suicides. The fourth." Lestrade cleared his throat and turned to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, two minutes I said. I need anything you got." With an inhale, Sherlock began sharing the information gathered from the body.

"Victim is in her late 30s. No markings on the wrists, ankles, or back of the neck, so likely undetermined. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. That's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade looked around the room again. Was it _invisible_?

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married." The consultant seemed to add, distractedly, out of nowhere. His coat swished as he spun about the room looking for the fabled suitcase. Lestrade tried his best to keep a grin off of his face. Well, it was fairly obvious that he wanted to impress Dr. Watson, so he figured that he might as well play along.

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up..." Sherlock whipped around to face Greg. The air coming off of the ends of his coat caused the dust on the floor to jump.

"Her wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there." Sherlock's speech grew more rapid as he went on. "The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside. That means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple, and entirely unsurprising if you account for the inflated infidelity rate among the undetermined." It was always simple once Sherlock explained it. He'd have to tuck the jewelry thing away for use in later investigations.

"It's brilliant!" Doctor Watson exclaimed. The other two men gave him questioning looks. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me." The doctor said quietly.

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains?" Sherlock asked, more to himself than the others. "It must be so boring. Her coat! It's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come from a decent distance, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff" Lestrade held back another smile. He wondered if Sherlock was aware that he dances out pieces of evidence while he explains them. He could be an excellent mime.

"It's fantastic!" Watson exclaimed as loudly as before.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, it's...fine." Oh? _Oh! _ So much for the Leprechaun of Sexual Satisfaction and the Tooth Fairy's day job.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade cut in with all the speed he could muster. The last thing he needed was to watch two men snogging over a dead body. Thankfully, the question was sufficiently distracting.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Greg asked. Sherlock threw him an irritated look.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in _German_. Of _course_ she was writing 'Rachel'. No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you_ know_ she had a suitcase?"

"Back of her right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, it could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade massaged his forehead. He had the strangest feeling that Sally was going to blame the murder on Sherlock...again. Hopefully she wouldn't make him sit in a cell for the night...again.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" So apparently it _was _invisible.

"Sher, there's no case!" Lestrade exclaimed. No need for the shouting and dramatics at this point. Just accept it and move on, Sherlock.

"They take the poison themselves. They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them." Why was Sherlock allowed to blather on about obvious things without a complaint? If any of Lestrade's team even mentioned something like that, they'd get knocked over with verbal abuse.

"Right, yeah, thanks. And...?" Greg prompted.

"It's murder. All of them. I don't know how. They're not suicides, they're killings, serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer. Love those. There's always something to look forward to." He looked like a little kid on Christmas morning. Maybe a kid in a candy shop. There was a cliche somewhere that fit.

"Why're you saying that?" If they swallowed the pills themselves, what evidence of murder was there beyond suspicion? Sherlock began his descent down the dilapidated stairs. Gesticulating wildly, he yelled back up to Lestrade and Watson.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? _Did she eat it?_ Someone else was here and they took her case." His voice dropped to a normal volume. Talking to himself, then. "So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there?" Not if Sherlock was that excited about it.

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair! She color coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking...Oh. Oh!" Sherlock clapped his hands together in glee.

"Sherlock?" So the Doctor hadn't been around long enough to hear his epiphany noise?

"What is it, what?"

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." _Wait!? _Sit around, have a few pints, and play cards until a dozen more people were dead?

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look. Houston, we have a mistake. Get onto Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel." Obviously that's what they would be doing. What would _Sherlock _be doing in the mean time? What was he hiding?

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?" Lestrade narrowed his eyes to glare after the man who had nearly run out of sight. Sherlock's leather shoes dug into the ground, propelling him back into Lestrade's line of sight. His coat billowed out with the turn. With an enigmatic shout, Sherlock bellowed up to them.

"Pink!"

And as soon as the 'k' had fallen from his tongue, he was gone again. Lestrade didn't even bother trying to hide his confusion. Anderson had called him back to the body with all intentions of continuing the investigation. With a sigh and not one more word, Greg Lestrade wearily brushed by Dr. Watson. If Sherlock had bothered to bring him at all, the man must be important to him. There's no doubt he'd be seeing him again. The formalities could wait. Pleasantries would be exchanged at a time when, someday, Greg wasn't so damn tired.


	5. A Warehouse

**AN: **So, I just wanted to give a million thanks to anyone who has read, reviewed, followed, made comments, suggestions, freaked out, and generally stuck with my story. I've gotten to the point where if I kept individually thanking all my followers, my fingers would fall off. I never expected that to happen, so I just wanted to let all of you know how much I appreciate you reading this.

* * *

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 7:43 PM_

_You'll be approaching Doctor Watson any second now. You are not to give him any information regarding my identity._

As the text predicted, the car pulled up to a phone booth containing a man of small stature. With a dazed and vaguely annoyed look on his face, Doctor Watson slid into the car besides her.

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 7:44 PM_

_The target has entered the vehicle, Sir. If any complications arise, I'll let you know._

With Doctor Watson en route, A could finally focus on something more pressing than her boss' love of the dramatic. Thank some omnipotent being that she hadn't inherited that gene. She had already typed her way through a thank-you note to the Queen of Spain, a speech, and half of a to-do list before John opened his mouth.

"Hello." A turned to him and smiled politely.

"Hi." And just as quickly turned back to her list. Did she have to schedule a lunch with the Prime Minister for Wednesday or Thursday?

"What's your name then?" She was so engrossed in her scheduling that it took her a minute to realize that he had asked a question.

"Uhh...Anthea." For today, Anthea would suffice.

"Is that your real name?" Not-Anthea looked up at him for a second and smiled. Not an idiot, this one.

"No."

"I'm John." She had skimmed over his biography on her way to collect him. Dr. John Hamish "Three-Continents" Watson (though 'Four-Continents' was arguably more accurate). Saved the lives of dozens in Afghanistan, only to have his career ended early by a shot to the left shoulder. Limp is entirely psychosomatic. Has one sister. Mother is still alive, father died in 2006. Was once a talented clarinet player.

"Yes, I know." She smiled to herself.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" She shot him a pitying look. He seemed like a nice enough man. Mycroft's theatrics could be...exhausting, to say the least. They _were_ effective though.

"None at all...John." Ever the expert in conversing while working, 'Anthea' heard the rustle of fabric that generally means a nod. Casual conversation taken care of, A turned her attention back to the BlackBerry, where it would hopefully stay for the rest of the ride.

_To: D. Cameron_

_30 Jan 7:51 PM_

_Mycroft wants to know if you're free for lunch on Thursday. If so, is the Diogenes Club suitable?_

_From: D. Cameron_

_30 Jan 7:51 PM_

_Thursday should be fine. 1:00?_

_To: D. Cameron_

_30 Jan 7:52 PM_

_1:00 is perfect._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 7:53 PM_

_Your lunch with the Prime Minister is at 1:00 Thursday. Dr. Watson doesn't seem to be a man of many words. ETA 6 minutes._

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 7:54 PM_

_I didn't expect that he would be._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 7:54 PM_

_While it's on my mind, you're due for a trip to the dentist mid-March, right?_

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 7:54 PM_

_Correct. We can discuss available dates tomorrow._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 7:55 PM_

_You received a call from the States a few minutes before John got in the car. President Obama needs to discuss Plan Alpha with you ASAP._

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 7:55 PM_

_We'll make arrangements for the meeting when you're done with Dr. Watson. It requires my full attention._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 7:56 PM_

_Your full attention? I never thought the day would come! Should I put the nation on Code 9 alert?_

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 7:56 PM_

_I do hope you mean Code 9 Lavender, because Code 9 Chartreuse is unlikely ever to happen, and Code 9 Pyrite has never been under my control._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 7:56 PM_

_So no zombies or solar apocalypse? Nuclear bunkers it is!_

At 7:59 PM, Dr. John Watson exited the car to chat with Mycroft Holmes in an abandoned warehouse. It was a routine that Anthea had witnessed many times before. Unlike the others, John Watson refused to sit down. Her interest was piqued. A refusal, however small, of one of Mycroft's power plays took strength. Mycroft laughed. A change in tactics, then? His lips formed the word 'Sherlock' and John shrugged. Rocking back and forth on his feet, Mycroft introduced himself as Sherlock's 'archenemy' and pointed out Sherlock's love of all things dramatic. Unfortunately, John was facing the other way, so 'Anthea' couldn't see his reply. Based on Mycroft's face, it was something about how kidnapping someone to have a chat in a warehouse could be considered dramatic. 'Anthea' may have cheered quietly. John pulled his phone from his pocket.

"I hope I'm not distracting you." To an ordinary observer, Mycroft would have been the picture of neutrality. To Anthea, however, he was like an open book. His slightly-narrowed eyes and defensive stance were the picture of irritation. John shook his head. She wanted to keep him in a jar for rainy days. A man immune to Mycroft's puppet strings! Hell, even Sherlock occasionally gave in to Mycroft's threats. John was like a breath of fresh air.

Mycroft pulled out his address book. As if he didn't already have Sherlock's new flat under surveillance. The bribe was coming up. John got another text, and must have replied while reading it.

"I haven't mentioned a figure." The cheer from the car wasn't so quiet this time around. If he could survive Mycroft's final attempt, the man was totally incorruptible. The "mysterious appearance of therapist's files" was the last stop before Watson came back to the car.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily." Whatever John said, it made Mycroft's eyebrows shoot up, and caused his eyes to widen. John Hamish Watson had done the near impossible. He surprised Mycroft Holmes.

"You tell me." In response, John tilted his head and walked away. Always a lover of the last word, Mycroft said something about John's left hand that stopped him in his tracks. He shook his head and gritted his teeth before turning around.

"My what?"

"Show me." Rolling his neck, John lifted his left hand. Palms inwards, close to the body. Highly defensive. Anthea stared wide-eyed as Mycroft attempted to take his hand gloveless (What was his agenda?). John yanked it back before reluctantly letting him examine it.

"Remarkable." Blah, blah, tremor, I know everything about you, blah, blah, blah, you aren't haunted by the war. "Welcome back."

Holmes twirled his brolly as he walked away...his destination was uncertain. Anthea smirked as she went to retrieve Watson.

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 8:14 PM_

_I think Dr. Watson won that round, Sir._

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 8:14 PM_

_Simply biding my time._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 8:14 PM_

_Of course you are. Where are you anyway? I don't see another car. Hiding behind the pipes until one arrives? Is that how you're biding your time?_

"I'm to take you home." John checked his phone again, and examined his left hand. "Address?"

"Uh, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first." That somewhere seemed to be where John was staying for the time being. Anthea pretended not to notice the gun concealed in his waistband when he reentered the car.

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 8:20 PM_

_We're headed to Baker Street. John has a gun tucked into his waistband. Thought you ought to know._

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 8:20 PM_

_Thank you._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 8:20 PM_

_So what exactly were you doing, grabbing his hand without a glove? You never even allow for the possibility of being marked._

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 8:21 PM_

_Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever._

_To: MH_

_30 Jan 8:21 PM_

_So you think...?_

_From: MH_

_30 Jan 8:21 PM_

_It's quite possible._

The pair pulled up to John's destination.

"Listen, your boss...any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"Sure!" She nodded.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" She stood by her earlier decision that he wasn't an idiot. Despite the fact that he wasn't lacking a brain, she really did want him to leave. After he was gone, she was free to go home and take a long bubble bath.

"Yeah."

"Hey, um...do you ever get any free time?" HA!

"Oh, yeah, lots." She snorted. John didn't move at all, so she continued texting. After a few seconds, she had to prompt him. "Bye!"

"Okay." Sorry, Three-Continents. Not tonight.


End file.
